Fluidity of the British Government
by emily.robbins.313
Summary: Mycroft is Genderfluid. This fic is a series of snippets from their life.
1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock was six years old, and Mycroft was sixteen years old; Sherlock discovered something about Mycroft's brother that the older boy hoped no one would ever know.

…

Sherlock walked into Mycroft's bedroom unannounced, looking for help with an experiment, and found Mycroft sitting on the window seat; wearing a pure white blouse, a pink knee-length skirt, and light pink socks topped with lacy frills.

Mycroft wasn't aware of their little brother's presence and they looked almost… comfortable. More than they had the last few days, anyway. That was until they turned around.

Sherlock saw Mycroft's neck pale and made-up eyes widen. "Sherlock!" Mycroft startled.

"Mycroft? What are you doing in girls' clothes?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock; you _mustn't_ tell mummy and father…" Mycroft began.

"But –"

"Sherlock! Please…" Mycroft pleaded, "You _mustn't_ tell them…"

"Sherlock looked into their eyes and nodded. "But can you explain why you're wearing those clothes?" Sherlock prompted, not sounding as angry or disgusted or anything Mycroft would think.

They sighed, "It's quite complex, brother mine…"

"I want to understand," Sherlock gave him an encouraging smile, or as close as he could manage to one.

"If I'm honest, Sherlock; even I don't really understand it."

"Try and explain your thought process."

Mycroft sighed again. "I think I'm a freak…" they whispered.

Sherlock startled at the word; he had heard it so often, but only when he was described; Mycroft was the 'normal' one. "Why?"

Mycroft thought very hard about how to verbalise it. "Some days are fine; I feel like my skin belongs and I am as I should be; which is fine, those are good days. But there are other times… Times where I just feel wrong; like I'm… in the wrong body, I suppose; and my skin crawls and everything's so… wrong. There are other times too; where I don't know how I feel, but it still feels wrong. I don't really know how to better describe it…"

"Like you're… In the wrong body…" Sherlock repeated, trying to understand the concept, "In what way?" Sherlock was being surprisingly understanding.

"It… It feels like I have the wrong… biology…" Mycroft ventured, cautiously.

It took a second or two for Sherlock to understand what they meant. "Oh! You want to be a girl!" Sherlock exclaimed, it wasn't malicious.

Well… That was blunt. Mind, this was _Sherlock_. "Uh… I _suppose_… sort of. But only some of the time. I don't really know… I just think I'm a freak." Mycroft hugged themselves subconsciously.

"You aren't a freak, My," Sherlock frowned.

"On the contrary, brother mine; I rather think I am. I've tried to find books about this but I… can't."

"You're not a freak," Sherlock insisted. Before Mycroft had a chance to argue, Sherlock changed the focus of the subject, "So… Wearing girls' clothes helps?"

"To an extent, I suppose. My physical being still feels… alien, though," Mycroft clarified.

Sherlock nodded, understanding a little better, now the information had sunken in. "But why don't you want mummy and father to know? If you explain it –"

"It doesn't work like that, Sherlock. They'll _hate_ me… They'll _disown_ me…" Mycroft began to panic.

"Mycroft, they won't; I promise –"

"You can't make promises for them Sherlock."

"Please! They should know…" _Sherlock_ said _please_. Damn his insistence.

"Fine! But they aren't going to like this, Sherlock!" Mycroft took a breath, "Sorry… Let's just get this over with…"

…

Mummy was sitting in front of the fireplace knitting while their father was completing a crossword puzzle in his armchair.

Sherlock ran in, the little ball of energy he was. "Mummy, father; Mycroft has something… uh… they want to tell you."

"Well where is he?" their father questioned.

"Uh… They're coming now. But, you can't be mad, ok? I won't like it and My really won't like it."

"Sherlock, what is it?" Mummy asked.

Luckily, Sherlock didn't have to answer as Mycroft stepped gingerly into the room; their skirt fluttering gently as the air moved. Their parents wore identical looks of shock, horror and anger. Sherlock looked between them with a confused look; bless the naive boy.

Mycroft opened his mouth to explain, but the words dried on their tongue. They just stood there wordlessly, opening and closing his mouth. Sherlock looked at them pleadingly; begging them to say something.

It was Mr Holmes that found his voice first. "Out," he muttered darkly.

Mycroft managed to find their voice, "Wha–what?"

"I said _out_!" their father yelled.

"Mother? Father?"

"You heard your father, you tranny! Get out!" Mycroft's mouth dropped open. They'd never heard their mother say such a thing.

"But –"

Their father stormed upstairs, stuffing Mycroft's suitcase, not caring if he creased the clothes.

"Mummy! Father! I thought you'd understand!" Sherlock yelled.

"This is _wrong_ Sherlock! Mycroft is a _boy_!" Their mother growled.

The next few minutes passed in a blur for Mycroft. They vaguely felt the pain and sensations of being dragged to the door and – literally – being kicked out. They face-planted into the muddy lawn, spitting out grass as his suitcase landed on his back.

"Don't come back here until you learn to be a _good boy_!" Their father yelled before slamming the door. Mycroft heard the click of the door lock and Sherlock's frantic attempts to open it as the young boy shouted apologies through the door.

Mycroft scrambled to their feet, inspected their torn and muddy skirt and blouse, and turned their back on the house. They would walk the mile to Anthea's house; she was the only one who knew and understood, other than Sherlock.

…

Mycroft knocked on the door to Anthea's house; aware they were sniffling and had puffy, red eyes and had smudges of mud and makeup all over.

The door opened. "Hello, Anthea," Mycroft sniffed.

"Mycroft? What happened?! Your clothes are torn and muddy and… oh God, have you been crying?"

They nodded. "I told my parents… Well, showed them; I wasn't able to speak at the time… They kicked me out."

"But why are your clothes so muddy and torn?"

"When I said they kicked me out – it was quite literal…" Mycroft sighed.

Anthea drew Mycroft into a tight hug, "God… How did Sherlock react?"

"He was very understanding, but it was all his fault. He told me they'd be fine; he practically begged me to tell them. I _knew_ it was a bad idea."

"Come inside – you're shivering…" Anthea lead Mycroft through the door and closed it behind them.

"You can borrow some of my clothes if you want; I see you have some too but not enough. You can also borrow my make-up. I'm sure mum will let you stay…" Anthea smiled.

"If you're sure…"

"I am. I don't want you anywhere near your parents."

"Thank you…"

**...**

**Poor Mycroft! Please review. If this offends you, please do say so I can edit it; I don't mean any offence and certainly don't wish for this to be taken that way.**


	2. Chapter 2

Four years had passed. Anthea and her mother were nice people and let them stay for a year before they went to university at seventeen. Not spectacularly young, but still a year younger than most. It was good. But now, they were face to face with their ten year old brother and Mycroft couldn't help but hold his irrational grudge.

…

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called, running down the high street to Mycroft. The older brother frowned. Before they knew it, Sherlock had enveloped them in a tight hug. "I haven't seen you in years!"

"Did you ever think it was on purpose," Mycroft snarled.

Sherlock let go and took a step back. "What?"

"It was your fault, Sherlock!" They yelled.

"I was six! I didn't know any better! Besides, it's not my fault our parents are horrible people! That's why I ran away!" Sherlock defended.

"You told me it would be fine; you practically begged me to tell them!"

"I didn't!

"_You_ said _please_!"

"You still could have refused! God, I can't deal with you when you're being irrational! It was _four years ago_, Mycroft; for one!"

"I was humiliated and – literally – thrown out! I was spitting out grass for the rest of the evening!"

"Should have closed your mouth!"

"You are the worst little brother anyone could _ever_ have!"

The look of shock on Sherlock's face was extreme before it gave in to anger. "Who accepted you?" Sherlock growled, "Who told you that you weren't a freak? Who tried to understand? Who _listened_?!"

"You just wanted to ruin my relationship with mother and father!"

Sherlock gave a humourless laugh. "You're paranoid and delusional!"

"Go find your _friends_!"

That was a low blow even for Mycroft. Sherlock could feel that pain in his chest. He just had to go. "Just… Leave me alone Mycroft. Hope the Government position works out, I guess."

And with that, Sherlock walked away. Mycroft battled competing emotions of sorrow, shame and pride. Sorrow and shame for alienating themselves from their little brother; pride at the fact said little brother could deduce.

They had access to CCTV; maybe it wouldn't hurt to check on him once in a while…

**...**

**Please review**


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft hadn't actually seen their brother since the drug abuse. There had been a lot of insults that night; but Mycroft was happy, and ever so slightly proud, that slurs against their gender fluidity – they now knew what it was called – were not made.

Now, they were standing at the edges of a crime scene on a freezing night wanting desperately to get home and out of his _boy clothes_. (Juvenile name, of course; but it served its purpose).

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upset Mummy," Mycroft was talking about the petty arguments they had before their parents… well.

"I upset her? Me?" Mycroft heard what Sherlock may or may not be implying and it rested like a lead weight in their stomach, "It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft." They can definitely hear it now... or Sherlock's right and they're paranoid.

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John Watson asked. Mycroft barely registered it.

"Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft," Sherlock stated. It made Mycroft grimace internally, even if it isn't meant maliciously.

The rest of the conversation is spent on autopilot, really. Only thoughts in their head screaming _wrong, horrible, skin crawling, get home_.

They came back into proper awareness when John turned to them, "Okay, good night."

"Good night, Doctor Watson," Mycroft bid as the doctor caught up with their brother.

They were considering their brother's new _friend_ when Anthea, keeping to her professional manner, asked, "Sir, shall we go?" She knew Mycroft felt feminine today, but if she said nothing but 'shall we go?' it would look very unprofessional, and if she said madam… well, that was obvious. The best thing she could do is help them home soon.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow," Mycroft remarked, "He could be the making of my brother – or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active."

"Sorry, sir. Whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

…

Mycroft was about to get into their chauffeured car when that detective inspector decided to make his presence known. "Uh… Hello; couldn't help noticing you were talking to Sherlock and, well, he looked a bit… well, pissed… Uh, I mean upset! Apologies… Well – his problems are my problems, you know – so, uh… what were you talking about?"

"Just some very old business. Mycroft Holmes; Sherlock's mortal enemy and brother," They didn't want to say brother, but saying sibling would raise suspicion.

What was his name…? Geoff…? George…? No. Well, who-ever-it-was laughed a quick, nervous sort of laughter. "Yeah, he's a bit dramatic, isn't he?"

Not nearly as dramatic as you think… "Well… Little brothers will be little brothers. Apologies, I seem to have missed your name…"

"Oh! Uh, sorry. It's Greg, Greg Lestrade…" Greg shuffled awkwardly, "This may seem a little strange, but… wouldyouliketogetacoffeesometime?"

"Pardon?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow as Greg took a breath.

"Sorry, I'm not usually like this; would you like to get a coffee sometime?"

Mycroft considered this. It was a lovely idea in theory, and it didn't have to escalate into a relationship. DI Lestrade was also very dishy… "I'd love to. Here's my card. I have to get going, but you can call me anytime you like. If I'm not busy, I would be glad for the invitation."

Mycroft handed their card to Greg, slipped elegantly into the car and was driven away from the crime scene.

The green dress and heels, they decided; their favourite as a reward for getting a date with someone so gorgeous.

…

Lounging in the living room of their flat, wearing their favourite dress and heels, Mycroft relaxed with a glass of wine.

Their phone buzzed on the side table with a simple message, but important meaning. _'Sorry I said brother. It's not like I could say 'sister', is it? (For clarification: this is not an attempt at mocking your gender identity. Just an apology – I know it's an unusual occurrence) – SH'_.

Mycroft laughed as they typed a reply; texting was certainly easier than face-to-face interaction. _'Quite alright. I'm more upset you didn't mention that dishy Detective Inspector Lestrade – saving him for yourself? ;) – MH'_

Mycroft considered deleting the emoticon, but hit send anyway. The reply was instant. _'You have my blessing; I have someone else to do tonight ;) ;) – SH'_

Oh dear God. _'Don't hurt the poor man; don't want to start him limping again ;) ;) ;) – MH'_

_'__Are you trying to compete with me with emoticons? :O _ :D ;) I think you'll find I win. – SH'_

_ '__Oh, really? XD ;) :) :D : BD 3:) – MH'_

_ '__Oh no, you didn't! Right! :) ;) 3:) BD XD :D :* _ - SH'_

They continued for hours until Sherlock finally gave in. _'I should go. I haven't slept in 48 hours. You win, I suppose, by default. – SH'_

Mycroft smiled. _'Goodnight, brother mine. – MH'_.


End file.
